


Around Again

by TessaDoesThings



Series: Tessa Definitely has a Time Travel Thing [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: "If you get killed walk it off", Denethor's A+ Parenting, Everybody Lives, F/M, Families of Choice, M/M, Tagging characters as they appear - Freeform, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Will probably contain characters from Sansûkh because I can no longer seperate that from canon, but that doesn't mean their not all disasters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessaDoesThings/pseuds/TessaDoesThings
Summary: When an unforeseen back-up plan of Sauron's kicks into play, the fellowship has no choice but to follow him back in time, to times before most of them were born. They all go back to save the world, but in the process, find something far more valuable. They find family.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Series: Tessa Definitely has a Time Travel Thing [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1991680
Comments: 44
Kudos: 141





	1. Prologue

o – o – o – o

_There and Back Again_

_A Hobbit’s Tale, By Bilbo Baggins_

_The Lord of the Rings_

_By Frodo Baggins_

_Around Again_

_By the Fellowship of the Ring_

_(and varying others)_

o – o – o – o

The heat of the Mount Doom was stifling. Sam could feel beads of sweat gathering on his brow, he dared not drop his sword stance long enough to brush them aside. Ahead, Mr. Frodo battled with Gollum over the ring – if you could call what was happening a battle. It was more a brawl, as they threw each other across the ever-crumbling walkway. Every bone in Sam’s body cried out to step in, to stand in front of Mr. Frodo, but even he could see that his closest friend wouldn’t welcome the help. He probably wouldn’t recognize him, a traitorous corner of the hobbit’s mind whispered. Sam shoved that whisper into the deepest corner of his mind, but it crawled right back.

A crack snapped through the air as Gollum body slammed Mr. Frodo, pinning them both to the edge of the walkway, the top halves of each of their persons hanging over the river of fire. But still, neither made any attempt to get away.

Sam saw it before anyone else there did, and was moving before he even realized, as a spiderweb of cracks spread out from beneath Mr. Frodo’s wriggling form, working up the stone platform towards the door, leaving no portion of it untouched. Sam felt the stone beneath his feet shift as pieces plummeted out of view to both his left and right and heard the hissing of the lava below eating away at the solid rock. But he didn’t look, as he crossed the bridge with single-minded intensity. But still, he wasn’t fast enough, and the ground below Mr. Frodo and his attacker crumbled away, and Sam’s dearest friend plummeted out of reach, the fabric of his shirt barely brushing Sam’s fingertips.

“Mr. Frodo!” The words tore out of Sam’s through, but the object of his terror barely noticed, even as the ground beneath Sam’s feet began to fall away as well. The other hobbit’s attention was entirely on trying to grasp the small golden ring that fell just out of reach beneath him.

Sam knew that he should step away from the rapidly shrinking ledge, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, still reaching out to the air like it would magically allow Mr. Frodo to grasp his hand, even as he fell farther from reach, until Sam was falling to, down and down to the fire. As he neared the lava, the heat became so stifling that even the beads of sweat on his forehead dried up, leaving his face warmer and drier than ever before. Falling, Sam tried to reach for Mr. Frodo’s hand, even as he wasn’t sure why. There was nothing he could do now for either of them, and the other hobbit was almost at his end, and Sam’s plummet was not fast enough to catch his. Moments before they stuck the lava, however, threads of four golden light struck out from the damnable golden ring, each in a separate direction, striking the wall in a cross shape. Mr. Frodo managed to strike his hand out, and grab not the ring, but the strands of light which pulsated like veins of power flowing from the ring.

Strands of darkness emerged from cursed golden metal, wrapping around the golden thread heading towards the walls, even as Sam threw out a hand, and caught the same strand as Mr. Frodo – a little to his right, farther from the ring and closer to the wall, even as he heard Gollum’s screams as the monstrous creature burned in the fires of the Mountain.

The strands of darkness flowed from the ring along the golden wires and Sam braced himself as they neared his and Mr. Frodo’s hands, but instead of rushing over Mr. Frodo’s hand, it stopped, floating in place along the wire, and Sam rather thought it looked like wisps of black clouds as it built up there. Then, to his horror, the same black wisps gathered around Mr. Frodo’s hand, except that instead of coming from the ring they came from within Mr. Frodo. The Black darkness poured out of him through his fingers, joining with the rest of the darkness, and racing back along the pulsating golden strands.

Sam made a noise of horror as the darkness began to pour out of Mr. Frodo’s whole body, climbing up him towards that damnable ring, until it seemed there was no darkness left to come out of him, and then Sam’s best friend went limp. The noise that came out now was less a whimper, as the one before had been, and more a sob.

“Sam…?” Mr. Frodo croaked, turning his head from the ring to look at his Sam, and Sam blinked in shock.

“Mr. Frodo!” He exclaimed but kept one eye on the inky black with was crossing between Mr. Frodo’s fingers now, towards Sam’s hand. He closed his eyes to brace himself for the evil even he could feel pouring off of it, but just before it touched him, the blackness stopped abruptly, as though it was a river that had slammed against a dam. The darkness poured off of the golden strands between Sam and Mr. Frodo, pouring down like waterfalls of inky blood into the lava below.

“Sam… I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, I lost control. I’m so sorry.” Mr. Frodo’s voice cracked on the second apology, and Sam longed to be on solid ground where he could wrap the other, broken hobbit in his arms in a big hug.

“It’s not your fault, Mr. Frodo. It was that cursed ring. You did your best.” Sam could see Mr. Frodo’s mouth open to give some retort, to blame himself again, but then the walls of the cavern on the three sides opposite of them began to glow the same terrible black color as still poured between them. The black filled in cracks in the wall neither hobbit had paid any attention to before, creating black symbols on the grey walls of stone. “Mr. Frodo… what do you suppose is happening?” Sam asked, barely managing to keep the terror out of his voice as he hung there.

“Some kind of failsafe, maybe? The symbols look almost elvish, but not quite? That symbol in the center to our left almost looks like the Sindarin symbol for time, but it’s a little different.” Mr. Frodo answered, his voice betraying the strain of fighting gravity to hang there for even the minute they hand managed to do so, but they had no where to go, not ledge that they could get to or reach.

 _“You are correct, Frodo. The symbol does stand for time, but it is older than Sindarin. The symbols in this room are Quenya, the first language of Middle Earth.”_ The voice of the Lady Galadriel filled Sam’s mind, and from the way Mr. Frodo jerked and that it was clearly addressed at him, Sam assumed he heard her as well.

 _“Lady Galadriel? How are you here?”_ Mr. Frodo’s hesitant voice filled Sam’s head, but a rush of relief followed it because it sounded full of life again, with a thin layer of inner peace hidden under the words which Sam could scarcely remember hearing since before Gandalf had fallen, deep in the mines of Moria.

 _“I am not truly here, dear Frodo. But I can feel my very being as it is drawn towards this dark ritual, and in doing so can feel the symbols as they fill themselves with the essence of Sauron’s being, of Sauron’s power, as I can also feel you.”_ Sam could barely restrain his shudder as he realized that the essence of the enemy and did his best to recoil farther from the stream of darkness that hung close to him, but never touched him. To his horror, the stream of darkness seemed almost to follow him as he recoiled, the distance between the darkness and himself never changing even as he attempted to swing his legs farther from it.

 _“Lady Galadriel – you said this is a dark ritual. Do you know what is happening?”_ Mr. Frodo asked.

_“Indeed. It appears as though Sauron is fleeing back into the pages of history to escape his fate. He must have established this as a safeguard to prevent the ring’s destruction.”_

_“Wha? He’s goin’ back in time?”_

_“Indeed, Samwise Gamgee. That is what Sauron aims to do. However, he failed to account for one thing. He failed to account for you.”_

_“Beggin’ your pardon, but what have I got to do with anything?”_

_“You have never fallen under the influence of the ring’s power, and therefore never under Sauron’s power. His essence cannot pass through you, therefore the ritual is incomplete.”_ Sam blinked in surprise. Of all the things in the world to stop the enemy, he had never expected to play any role other than Mr. Frodo’s companion. He didn’t think he could hold any darkness at bay, not really.

 _“So, Sauron won’t be able to flee? He’s been defeated?”_ Mr. Frodo asked, and Sam marveled at the hope that was bubbling up in Mr. Frodo’s voice.

_“No, dear Frodo, enough of the ritual is intact that he will be able to send himself back to 100 years ago. But, due to the incomplete ritual, with Samwise’s aid, we will be able to send champions of our own to follow him.”_

_“Me? I’m no wizard, wha’ can I do?”_

_“Your untouched nature is the very opposite of Sauron’s ritual, so we can use you as a counterbalance in the place of whoever the enemy intended and send our own champions back through history to oppose him.”_ Doubt crept inside of Sam’s mind, but he battled it back with the memory of a conversation with Mr. Frodo so long ago, words of Samwise the Brave in the tale of Frodo and the Ring, and Sam steels himself.

 _“Ok. How do I do it?”_ Sam asked, and he could feel the warmth of the Lady’s smile, unseen though it was.

 _“Just look into your heart and focus on the companions you would bring with you. The ring and the those of us who remain from the White Council will do the rest.”_ Sam nodded, and closed his eyes.

“‘m ready whenever you are.” He realized he’d spoken aloud, but somehow, he knew the Lady had heard it anyway. Sam felt something brush against his foot and realized with a start that Mr. Frodo was pressing there feet together, since both of their hands were busy keeping them from falling.

Sam peaked a single eye open as he felt the single presence of the lady multiply into many more, and nearly started in surprise as he could now actually see the vague outline of many figures. The Lady Galadriel’s shape was to his left, and Sam was fairly sure that ahead of him, below what used to be the entrance, was Lord Elrond. To the right was – Sam’s breath caught in his throat, as he whispered out a reverent “Gandalf?” Mr. Frodo’s head whipped around to follow Sam’s line of sight.

 _“It is time, Samwise Gamgee. We cannot afford to dally here, lest the runes fade.”_ That was Gandalf’s familiar voice washing over a wound in Sam’s heart that Moria had left which time had never managed to blunt.

“What do I have to do?”

 _“Your heart knows the way already, Samwise. You need only to trust it.”_ And it seemed the specter of Gandalf still spoke riddles, Sam considered, before shutting the thought down. He tried to focus on his heart the way Gandalf said, but as he did so his mind moved to the fellowship – to those he would trust to have his back through a battle with the enemy, and to those he trusted to have Mr. Frodo’s back.

o – o – o – o

Frodo watched as Sam screwed his eyes shut so hard that his forehead wrinkled up. Then, the golden strands that his hands were gipping began to shake, the movement jarring against the repetitive beating of before. Frodo tightened his grip around the strand with both hands until it was so tight Frodo wondered if it was biting into his hands and that his mind was simply numbing the pain the same way it was surely numbing the pain from his left ring finger.

Frodo followed the tremors of the strand back to the ring, and saw it was glowing now. Frodo seriously wished that the White Council would hurry up with whatever they were doing, because he didn’t want to die-

Frodo didn’t want to die. In fact, he actively wanted to live.

Frodo couldn’t remember the last time he felt that way. It felt like an entirely separate lifetime. Frodo supposed that if this worked, it would.

By Yavannah, Frodo wanted this to work, he wanted to live.

Before Frodo’s eyes, the ring gave a huge flash of golden light that left him blinking white spots from his vision. When his eyesight refocused, there were more pulsating strands rising from the ring, from all around the circlet. Most of these strands shot out of the chasm they were in, out of the hole in the wall up above them where a platform had once jutted out, reaching towards the dusty grey sky above them. Two strands, however, move the opposite direction, and Frodo could not find it in himself to be surprised as one of them wrapped itself around him. The golden light of these strands which were free of the darkness that stifled the light of the other strands was warm, and the strands seemed to pull him closer to the ring, but Frodo used the now blackened strands that he gripped to resist the pull. The other strand latched itself around Sam. Both hobbits were being pulled towards the ring now, and Frodo fought to keep himself away from it, but he could feel the blood from his missing finger slicking his hand, loosening his grip so that is slipped and slid towards the cause of so much pain and–

_“Do not fight it, my champion. For it is not the power of the enemy that draws you in, but the power to chase him across time where he has hidden.”_

o – o – o – o

Legolas could feel the back Gimli’s shorter form press up against his back as they found each other in the swarm of carnage. Without words or even sight, they both reassured the other that they were both still there, even as Legolas launched himself off of Gimli, gaining almost a foot of altitude so that he could send an arrow into the head of a larger orc which had been approaching Aragorn from behind. His momentum began to sweep downwards again, and he kicked an orc in the face as he drew his knifes from their sheaths at his side, throwing them up in an X-shape to block a strike aimed at his shoulder. Dropping the one underneath he slammed that into the gut of his attacker, then pulled it back out as he kicked the orc’s body away from himself. Spinning in a half turn to his left, he used the momentum to slam his other knife through a weak spot in another orc’s armor.

Truly, there is a never-ending amount of these pests, Legolas thought to himself, yanking his knife out of the latest orc body as it fell towards the earth, before slamming it into the body of another. It felt like he’d been fighting here for days, even though the elf knew logically it had been barely hours. Still, the fighting was brutal, he thought as he skewered another orc on his knife. He was beginning to feel the fatigue settle in his muscles, and if he were tiring, he was sure the men who fought alongside him would as well.

Legolas threw his knives into the foreheads of two orcs and drew an arrow from his quiver so that he could finish off the third of the trio. As he plunged the point of the projectile into his target’s neck, the ground beneath him gave a single, prolonged shudder as though it was a boat rocked by a large wave. The very world seemed to lose its balance, and surfaces that were once flat seemed like rolling hills for but a moment. In response, there were cries of distress from both sides of the fighting, creating a brief lull in the battling. Legolas used the time to retrieve the blades he had thrown when he heard what sounded like equal parts reverent chant and fearful cry rise up from both sides of the battle.

“The eye! The eye of Sauron is gone!” Legolas’ eyes shot straight up to the point in the sky where the gleamingly cruel shape had towered before, only to find nothing but empty air below grey clouds, as though it was just another desolate patch of Mordor. Sweeping his gaze downwards, Legolas scanned the ground where the base of Sauron’s tall black tower once stood, but no rubble was there either. The tower had vanished entirely.

“It’s like it was never there at all.” The words slipped out of Legolas’ mouth before he could stop them.

“Not so, Lad. The crater is still there where the mountain stone was flattened to be the tower’s base. It’s more like the tower got up and walked away, though I can’t imagine how.” Gimli’s voice responded, and Legolas turned his back to Mordor to see his friend picking his way over to him through the carrion of the battle.

“Mellon-nin. It is good to see you in one piece.” Legolas responded, stepping over the body of the orc he had jammed with an arrow to meet Gimli in what almost counted as an open space. There were no bodies on the scorched patch of flattened grass, although it was dead, a shade of brown and red from the blood splattered upon it. The dwarf let out a bark of laughter.

“It’ll take more than a couple o’ orcs to bring me down, and you know it.” Gimli responded, his tone teasing, but all the same he took Legolas’ hand when the elf offered it. With his hand clutched in the dwarf’s larger hand, Legolas looked around the battlefield. There were almost no pockets of fighting left, although the clang of metal that rang around his head proved that still a few blades were being drawn. Legolas slowly turned his head, looking for Aragorn, the hobbits, or some clue as to what was happening, but as he turned towards Mordor, suddenly his eyes were overwhelmed.

The whole world seemed to be overtaken in golden light in a single flash. Legolas’ eyes burned with the intensity of it, and it felt as though the light was trying to tear its way into his soul through his eyes. Then, as quickly as the light had gone, it faded. Legolas had to blind twice to clear the spots from his sight, (an unfamiliar feeling, and one he found altogether unpleasant) before he could see again.

When he could, in fact, make out the anything beyond the vague shapes of Mordor, his eyes were drawn to Mount Doom. The blinding light had likely originated from there, and now, shooting out of the mountain from what Legolas assumed was the entrance to another accursed cave, was streaks of similar light. They cut through the layer of ash and dust that hung in the sky in place of clouds in Sauron’s land, these golden strands, and their pathways diverged as soon as they emerged from the mountain. A pair of strands of light traveled north almost immediately, and as they cut through the murky sky it looked like a school of golden fish making its way between rapids in a river.

Most of the other strands of light made their west from Mount Doom, towards them, although Legolas noted that one broke off from the pack and began to head in a more southward direction. The four threads of golden light remained were traveling straight towards the battlefield, and Legolas began to tense up as he noted that they were beginning a descent as though they were to actually collide with the armies that stood here.

The lights were almost directly over the battlefield now, streaking downwards. Two of them seemed aimed directly at Legolas and Gimli, and the elf idly wondered what good having two of the same weapons was if you pointed them at the exact same spot to target. The other two did not appear to be having the same problem, one aiming for a spot closer to where the black gate once stood and the other where Aragon’s forces had gathered before the final charge.

As the glowing lights got closer to where he and Gimli stood, Legolas was forced to drop the dwarf’s hand to leap out of the way, little good though it did. The strands spilt apart once he and Gimli were several feet apart, and one followed him and the other followed Gimli. Legolas brought a blade up to try to block whatever attack was coming, and as the strand of light charged him down, Legolas noted that while the glow of the light and the pulsating he could see made the string look wider, in nature it was actually barely the width of an arrow.

That was Legolas’ final thought as the golden strand brushed through is knife as though it wasn’t there, latching onto his finger. From there the golden glow seemed to spread up and down his body as though it was water pouring into an empty lake. It did not burn as the flash from before had, and instead it felt warm, like he was coming home to someplace he didn’t know he was gone from.

Looking across the carnage, Legolas strained to see past the glow he was giving off. He could hear the shouts of unfamiliar voices, but they sounded distant, as though they were calling from the far side of a gorge rather than as close as they probably were. Legolas’ eyes adjusted to the golden light that he was now giving off quickly, even as he felt his feet leaving the ground behind and his body felt the rush of air as he was lifted up. He could now see three other pods of light, and inside he could make out figures. The nearest was Gimli, who was unnervingly still inside the light, and then there was a figure to Legolas’ east which was clinging to a long, familiar blade as he was lifted into the sky, and that could only be Aragorn. The final beam which had stuck the battlefield was far enough away the Legolas could only see a blur of a silhouette of the figure inside, but it was small enough that it could only be Pippin, the only hobbit who had come with them to the black gate.

Legolas tried to throw off the light as he felt himself climb higher, but his body seemed to protest that idea, and would not move when he commanded it to do so, simply remaining in a pose ready to fend off an attack with his knives. He could almost feel some level of panic settling into his mind, when a warm, familiar voice washed into his mind.

_“Do not fight it, my champion. For it is not the power of the enemy that draws you in, but the power to chase him across time where he has hidden.”_

o – o – o – o

Merry wasn’t quite sure how his bed had become a gathering spot of the recovering wounded, but he was enjoying the company – it helped drive away thoughts of the figure that wasn’t by his bedside anymore. Still, if these two didn’t get their act together soon, Merry was going to bash their heads together.

Èowyn was sitting on the bed Merry was in, her back against the wood that ran along the foot of bed, and her legs in front of her, between them. There was more than enough space for the two of them, given that the bed had been designed for Big People, and even now that Merry was quite tall for a hobbit he was still much smaller than a Big Person. Her arm was wrapped up in a sling made from what Merry was quite sure were the remains of a ruined black tunic, but her skin had regained most of the color it had lost immediately after her injury.

In a chair that had been dragged over from a healer’s table to the left side of the bed sat Faramir. He too looked as though he had definitely seen better days and was arguably in worse shape than Èowyn. His skin was pale, which only made the dark rings under his eyes stand out more. His shoulder was wrapped in several layers of white bandages over an arrow wound, and though he hid it well, Merry could see that he winced when he shifted in his chair, likely from the burns that Merry knew spotted his back but had not yet seen.

It had taken some fighting by the healers, but Faramir had forgone a tunic, as supposedly he was to let his burns ‘breath’. Merry had never heard of doing so for burns but as it seemed to be doing some good, he had filed the information away for future use anyway. Besides, Faramir’s chest and shoulder were wrapped in so many bandages Merry silently wasn’t sure the blonde steward would have been able to get a tunic on anyway. Besides, Èowyn hardly seemed to mind, Merry noted, as she kept sneaking peeks at her shirtless companion’s chest before flushing and quickly directing the conversation back to the hobbit. It silently amused said hobbit, and it was all Merry could do to avoid sniggering every time he caught her doing it.

Of course, Faramir was no better. Really, it was practically unlike him. He seemed so composed whenever he was speaking with one of the councilors who came in and out in whirlwinds, and he never seemed caught off guard by any of the paperwork that was brought in stacks. But, when Èowyn would laugh, or when her face split in a smile, Faramir would get a faraway look in his eyes, and the pen that was practically glued to his hand would droop downwards towards the makeshift desk that Faramir had made for himself from a dented shield as he watched her. Then the moment would break, and Merry had to restrain a huff when Faramir noticed what he was doing before Èowyn could, and he’d collect himself.

Really, Merry thought, these two were more gone on each other than Sam Gamgee and Rosie Cotton, but they were also even more helpless than the two of them. But that was ok, he’d been in need of a new project anyway.

“So, Faramir, what has got you working so hard right now?” Merry asked, and the new steward of Gondor looked up from a page he’d been hunched over. “Still the reparations for ruined farmland?” Those had started to pour in immediately after the battle had ended, and Faramir had buried himself in them almost immediately. Merry suspected that he was avoiding dealing with his own emotional pains by trying to sort out everyone else’s.

“No, this one’s a little more personal.” Faramir commented, and there was a tone of sadness ringing around in his voice. Èowyn clearly noticed as well.

“Oh no, is something wrong?” She asks, shifting over to peer curiously at what he was working on.

“It’s not really important, but it’s a project I have been trying to push for a long time that my …” Faramir’s voice trailed off, and he seemed to steel himself for a moment, and Èowyn reached for his shoulder with her good arm and, when she couldn’t quite reach without shifting her sling, squeezed his arm. “The former Steward blocked my push for this project for some time, and now that I can I thought I’d put together a proposal for the King when he returns.” Faramir final states after another false starts, and Merry feels his heart break a little. There hadn’t been time for Pippin to fill him in on the relationship between Faramir and his father, but he had managed to convey that Faramir’s burns were the definitely the caused by the man, and that it had been Denethor’s uncaring words that had led to the other injuries Faramir had suffered.

“Rangers?” Èowyn asked as she made a noise of surprise while reading the page he had been writing on, and Merry could only make out the black ink in Faramir’s sweeping handwriting, but not the individual words.

“Indeed. The Rangers of Ithilien do not have the same legal classification as other soldiers in the armies of Gondor, and therefore if something were to happen to them in battle, I was unable to provide a pension or the usual looser taxes to the families of the men who had followed me into battle.”

“You were a ranger captain?” Èowyn was looking at Faramir with surprise in her eyes, and Merry silently willed her to move a little closer to him, or for one of them to just catch the other staring already. They both deserved someone as kind as the other.

“Yeah, for almost four years- Look out!” Faramir cried out, and the repurposed shield clanged against the floor as Faramir threw himself at Merry, knocking the hobbit onto his back from the sitting position he’d been in before. Èowyn had been in the way as well, and as a result ended up face-down on top of Merry but underneath Faramir, and despite the energy now rushing through Merry, he allowed himself a little chuckle at the red flush that had crept up her cheeks.

“Faramir, what?” she managed to cry out, even as the room the three of the had been filled with was suddenly filled with a blinding light. Merry saw Faramir’s head turn back towards the light, even as it turned from the window it had entered through, which Èowyn had opened scant 10 minutes ago. The light seemed to point directly at the three of them, and it didn’t slow down as it headed right for them. Merry placed his hands on the shoulders of Èowyn and Faramir to push them away, but before he had time to, the light shot seemingly right through the other two in order to slam into Merry.

“Merry!” That was Faramir’s voice, but as the golden light enveloped Merry, the words seemed to come from far away instead of directly on top of him. Merry felt the weight on top of him shift as his eyes adjusted to the blinding light, and instead he now felt two different forces pulling his arms downwards, and he realized that he could no longer feel the firm infirmary bed below him, and instead he just felt air on all sides of his body. Merry tried to call out a response to Faramir but found that his whole body was quite incapable of moving, or even speaking. He could only watch in horror as whatever the light was swept downwards, enveloping both Èowyn and Faramir as well.

The light seemed to sweep down his arms at the same rate, although Èowyn’s arms were shorter so it reached her torso first. By then, it was clear she tried to pull away, but Merry could see that she found the parts of her body covered in light equally as unwilling move as his was, and she was lifted off of the ground the same as him. Faramir followed a blink of an eye later, but he managed to hook an arm around Èowyn’s bandaged shoulder, pulling her closer to him even as the two of them were pulled upwards alongside Merry.

As the three of them were all immobilized and unable to call for help, suspended in the air together, Merry felt a loose horror take root in his heart, even as the light felt warm and hopeful in opposition of it. Then, a familiar voice which was the last thing he expected to hear filled his mind, draining the tension from it, even though it was immediately clear it did not have the same effect on the other two caught in the light.

_“Do not fight it, my champion. For it is not the power of the enemy that draws you in, but the power to chase him across time where he has hidden.”_

o – o – o – o

Bilbo had nodded off again, Arwen noted. He’d been doing it more and more in the months past. The healers all said it was a symptom of again not uncommon in hobbits. It was likely, they said, that now that the Bilbo had relinquished the ring, all the years it had bought him were all catching up to him at once. This time, the former explorer had fallen asleep while in a chair on the balcony overlooking the river. The chair was made of steel and had an armrest which most of Bilbo’s weight rested on.

“Oh, Bilbo. You cannot be comfortable there.” Arwen spoke aloud, before reaching around the hobbit and picking him up. He felt heavier, Arwen thought. Then it struck her that while she had once carried him back to bed nearly every day, she had not done so since she had chosen a mortal existence. Still, heavier though the hobbit’s weight might seem, it was hardly a burden, Arwen thought to herself as she settled Bilbo back onto his bed.

As she laid him against the mattress, he uncurled from the balled-up position he had been in previously and stretched out his legs a little. Then, the sleeping figure shifted and turned on his side. From this new position, Arwen could see that clutched tightly in his arms, as though it was the most precious treasure in the world, was a worn red book. She recognized it as the one he’d been writing in for so long. Arwen considered taking it to move to the desk, but saw how closely Bilbo was clutching at it and changed her mind, leaving it in his arms.

Moving to the end of small bed that had been designed to be the right size for a hobbit, Arwen pulled the white bedsheets over the sleeping figure, and then settled a quilt that Bilbo had brought with him from the shire over him. The quilt had 14 patches, and while it had never been confirmed for her, Arwen knew what they represented, for it to be one of the few things Bilbo had taken with him when he set out the shire. After all, 14 was both the number of patches, and also the number of members of the company of Thorin Oakenshield.

“How is he?” Arwen turned to see Lindir standing in the door. His words were cautiously chosen – when he had learned she had chosen to join her love in mortality, the argument that had followed between the two of them was rivaled only by the one Arwen was sure she was about to have with her brothers.

“He was asleep when I arrived.” Arwen said quietly, and Lindir tilted his head in a show of acknowledgement. Arwen then settled into a chair. “And I thought you were going to be in meetings with my father all day?” At least, Arwen’s father had mentioned something to that extent over breakfast.

“The Lord Elrond received an emergency summon to a meeting what remains of the White Council. He has gone to his chambers to preform the meditation to attend remotely.” Arwen tipped her head back in a show of acknowledgement to rival the one Lindir had given moments before. Suddenly, a warm breeze blew in through the door to the balcony which Arwen now realized she had left open, and before she had time to cross the room to close it, a thread of golden light no wider than an newborn elfling’s arm came shooting into the room. The light fell upon Bilbo Baggins where he lay in bed, and Lindir simply raised an eyebrow.

“Lindir, know you what is happening?” Arwen asked, even though she knew the answer – after knowing Lindir as a family friend as long as she had, she suspected they could both read each other’s every facial expression.

“I suspect that this is directly related to that which Lord Elrond was summoned for. The light has the same warm feeling as his healings.” Now that Lindir has said something about it, Arwen could of course pick out the familiar energy of her father within the golden light which now surrounded the hobbit. Arwen dared not get closer, even as he began to rise up out of the bed, the quilt sliding off of him and falling to the ground. Yet, even as it did so, something in Bilbo’s face began to soften, and the edge of aging seemed to fade.

Arwen reached forward, not daring to touch the energy for fear of getting caught in whatever took place, but feeling for the other energies within the light. Such things had once come easy to her, a part of her mind frustratedly commented, but no longer now that she was mortal. Still, Arwen was able to recognize the Lady Galadriel’s energy in the mix, as well as the familiar feel of Mithrandir’s energy. As the light seemed to take Bilbo Baggins from his worn body and from the room at the same time, Arwen could swear she heard her grandmother’s voice under the current of the energy.

_“Do not fight it, my champion. For it is not the power of the enemy that draws you in, but the power to chase him across time where he has hidden.”_

o – o – o – o

At the bottom of a riverbed, an emerald leaf-shaped pin glowed when it caught the golden light that streaked towards it, even as it was caught in the tangle of the ruined cloak it pinned in place. The cloak whipped back and forth from the power of the rapids that rushed around them, but it was kept in place both by the glowing pin, and the weight of the one who had once worn both cloak and pin proudly, and had worn them into his final oblivion.

o – o – o – o


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone has many questions, and the three elven ring-bearers fake it 'till they make it on answers.

o – o – o – o

_And so, they awoke in a time entirely unfamiliar yet familiar, most with words of comfort ringing in their ears. However, when Faramir, son of Denethor II, and_ _Èowyn, the White Lady of Rohan awoke, they had no such words, and only themselves and two hobbits…_

o – o – o – o

Feeling returned to Èowyn slowly, as though the world was returning to existence the same way color would creep across the sky in a sunrise. It started around her head like the sun which crossed the horizon line into the world. She could feel a gentle feeling of tickling next to her ear, and she was aware of her hair sprawled out around her head. A breeze brushed against her face. Feeling crept down her neck to her shoulders, the first light spilling out of the sunrise. She could feel now that whatever was tickling against her ear was against her neck, and then she could feel it over the neckline of the dress she had on.

Feeling rushed down her arms towards the tips of her fingers, gaining speed the way the color of a sunrise spreads shades of red across a dark sky. Èowyn hooked her fingers in whatever was beneath her, and she realized slowly that it must be grass as her fingers buried themselves in the soil beneath it. Some part of Èowyn’s mind called that was wrong, that there should be something else there, but consciousness was returning to her mind as slowly as the rest of her body.

Feeling rushed down her back, and it tingled as it did so. Èowyn could tell, now, that she was lying on the dirt. She wished she knew where, but she was only beginning to be able to see. Her mind began to think properly, thoughts returning much the same as feeling to her mind. She knew now, that she was supposed to be somewhere else. Indoors, perhaps? Trapped inside somewhere, that sounded right.

Feeling returned to her legs, and she became aware that one leg rested on something other than dirt. It was warm and not smooth, and suddenly she realized her leg was on top of someone else. Which was balanced out as she felt a weight on her other leg, and realized someone was on top of her.

Èowyn could now feel all of herself and, as she tested, move as well, and the fog seemed to be lifting from her mind. With what seemed to be an unreasonable amount of effort, Èowyn braced her arms, then pushed herself into a sitting position. The wind tussled Èowyn’s hair around her face, and now sitting, she got a good look at her location. She was on a plateau of grass, which seemed to roll on green forever. A lesser eye might have assumed it to be the plains of Rohan, but Èowyn could not see the piles of stone which always dot the land of her homeland.

Looking a little closer, Èowyn saw that to her left, a what must be tall forest could be seen peeking over a hill, and in front of her stood a towering mountain range, but both were so far off that she felt she could pick them up in her hand if she just reached out to. Èowyn turned her eyes from the scenery when what sounded like a faint moan of pain arose from the figure on top of her. Turning her attention to it at last, Èowyn let out a little gasp of surprise.

“Faramir!” The surprised noise slipped through her lips unsolicited, and she wanted to groan at the informality of it. She could see, now, that the figure under her other leg was a hobbit, and she shifted her leg to the ground and could see that it was not Merry there, to her surprise, but his cousin. Pippin, Merry had said his name was?

“Èowyn?” Faramir rasped out as he too abandoned formality while pulling himself into a sitting position, and in a moment quickly pulled his arm off of Èowyn’s leg. He looked something awful, yet still better than he had before. His face was not nearly as gaunt, and he had regained a healthy coloring, even if his cheeks were a little flushed – likely from the wind which was picking up speed, Èowyn thought. Faramir shifted his position, and Èowyn saw that he had with him Merry, beside him as Pippin was beside her, and a knot that she hadn’t know was caught in her chest loosened. Èowyn shifted, leaning over to check on the hobbit right next to her.

“Is Merry ok?” She asked him, and Faramir gave a small nod.

“He’s out cold, but he seems otherwise okay. What about Pippin?” And Faramir’s voice seems to be tight with worry. Èowyn leaned forward, pressing her hand against the underside of Pippin’s chin to feel his pulse.

“There’s a pulse. He appears fine, just asleep as well.” She responded. “Although, I can’t imagine how he got here, he was supposed to be with the riders who approached the black gate.”

“Well, Lady Èowyn, I’m not quite sure how we got here either, so I suppose Pippin is in good company. Now, are you all alright? You seem to have lost your sling.” Faramir commented as he got to his feet. Èowyn noted with an internal twinge of disappointment that they were back to formalities. But still, with a blink of surprise, Èowyn realized he was right. She hadn’t noticed it was gone, perhaps because her arm seemed to be in fine shape. One by one, she curled and uncurled each finger on her left hand and found that they did exactly as she bid them to with no extra effort.

“Indeed, I am, Lord Faramir, for I find I no longer need it. But perhaps that is not altogether a surprise, for you are looking much healthier as well if you’ll forgive my bluntness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Lady Èowyn, for I quite welcome your bluntness. I find it to be quite refreshing.” Èowyn absolutely refused to acknowledge the blush that she could feel dusting her face in response to that, but she quickly noted that Faramir was currently shifting Merry so that the hobbit would lay next to his cousin. “You awoke first, fair lady. Have you any idea where we are?”

“I woke moments before you did. I have no idea where we are, or how we came to be here.”

“Last I can recall was whatever that was streaking towards Merry, and then just… light.” Faramir’s face was scrunched up, and Èowyn noted that when he made the face he was making right then, a little wrinkle appeared on his forehead.

“Yeah, the light is the last thing I remember as well.” Èowyn commented, “Although I also remember you needlessly throwing yourself needlessly between danger and myself. I hardly need you to protect me.” Faramir flushed a deep shade of red.

“I apologize if I offended you, fair shieldmaiden, though it was not for your safety I feared - I worried about Merry’s ability to dodge an attack,” Faramir responded smoothly, and darn it, that probably the one thing that he could have said to smooth the incident over. “It is worrying, however, that neither of us remembers how we got here.” He added. “Or, where here is. Rohan, perhaps?” His face was still screwed up with a concerned look on his face.

“No, it is unlike any area of Rohan I have seen, and I have seen most all of Rohan.” Èowyn climbed to her feet to stand next to Faramir, noting that he had wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the sword which hung from a scabbard on his belt, and Èowyn wished she could do the same. Before she or Faramir could suggest a course of action, however, a faint groan was heard from one of the hobbits. Èowyn moved to check on them, and Merry’s surprise greeted her.

“You’re not supposed to be here?”

o – o – o – o

_Yet while they slumbered, what once was broken became whole again in a realm between existence._

o – o – o – o

Sam closed his eyes as he dangled over the fire in the belly of Mount Doom, and when he opened them, he was somewhere else. He could no longer feel the blistering heat as though it was going to melt his skin off, and instead, he felt as though a gentle shire breeze was blowing through his hair, and his arms were no longer burning, but felt a pleasant warmth on them, like the sunlight on a spring day. Of course, none of that made any sense at all since Sam could see neither wind nor the sun.

In fact, Sam felt like he was standing in a black void. However, it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant experience. Complementing the black floor of the space where he stood, a ring of golden light on all sides the separated the floor he stood upon with the great walls of black on every side, and another ring of golden light marked where the black walls became the roof. These markers were the only reason Sam could tell the space he was in was more a room than just nothingness.

The blackness of the space wasn’t oppressive, however. There was no sense that you were in a too-tight space, or that the darkness was closing in. When the fellowship had crossed through Moria, the darkness had elevated Sam’s worries, and he’d been constantly trying to peer through it to see Mr. Frodo, as though the mere darkness would talk him away. The blackness here didn’t feel like that. It instead was soothing Sam’s nerves. Instead of hiding attackers, this blackness seemed to highlight that there were none, perhaps because the space was not actually all that dark. Light spilled from the two glowing rings of light at the floor and roof, and so Sam could see clearly even if all there was to see was black.

“Sam?” Mr. Frodo’s voice called from next to Sam, where the gentlehobbit had just appeared. Sam barely restrained himself from staring at him. The frown lines that had been taken up a permanent home on his face were gone, and the stress that lived along his shoulder was less, now.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam cried out and pulled him into a hug. Sam felt Mr. Frodo’s hands twist in his shirt, pulling the hug tighter until Sam was sure the only way to be closer would be if they were to become one hobbit together. No words are spoken between them, even as Sam took Mr. Frodo’s hand into his own, aware of the missing finger, he laced their remaining fingers together anyway.

It felt like an eternity passed while the two hobbits just held each other, but all the same, it felt like no time had passed. Suddenly, there was a whoop of joy, and Sam found himself and Mr. Frodo being knocked to the ground by the force of an easily excited hobbit.

“Frodo! Sam! You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay!” Mr. Pippin cried from where he was on top of Sam. Behind him, Mr. Merry was behind their attacker, and Sam recognized the look on his face that said he was preparing to give a scolding to the youngest hobbit. The need was cut off though, as Mr. Frodo’s laughter rang out for the first time in a very long time.

“Well, look at you, Pippin! You’ve grown so big! I dare say there has never been a larger hobbit.” Mr. Frodo teased the hobbit who was practically sitting on top of him. “And here, I thought you had finished growing, but you’re still growing like a tweenager!”

“It’s probably because he still behaves like one!” Mr. Merry commented, a grin breaking across his face.

“What does that say about you then, Mr. Merry, since it seems you’ve grown even more than Mr. Pippin has!” Mr. Frodo responded, casually wiggling out from underneath Mr. Pippin so that the younger hobbit was beside him. Still, he kept one arm swung over Mr. Pippin’s shoulder. Mr. Merry made a noise of surprise, before launching himself at Mr. Frodo as well.

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” Sam barely heard the words which Mr. Merry murmured into Mr. Frodo’s shoulder.

“Merry, I think that’s a sentiment can all share.” Sam whirled around to see that Mr. Strider was standing on the opposite side of the room, a small grin on his face. Mr. Legolas and Mr. Gimli stood next to each other a little off to the left. Sam could feel the grin splitting his face as he saw them. Before anyone else moved, Mr. Gimli had crossed the space in four long strides, and had thrown his arms around Sam. Sam felt himself tense up in surprise, but it took barely a moment for his mind to realize there was no threat and to relax into the embrace, bone-crushing as it was.

“Lad, it’s mighty good to see you again. You had us worried.” Mr. Gimli commented, and Sam was reminded of the fact the dwarves never did anything quietly. Still, he hugged Mr. Gimli tightly even as the dwarf picked him up off the ground with the strength of his hug.

“Take care Gimli, we wouldn’t want to hurt Sam now, would we.” Mr. Legolas stated, resting an elbow on top of the dwarf’s head, and what? Sam would really like to know when this happened. However, instead of putting Sam down, Mr. Gimli sat down next to Mr. Frodo, pulling the other three hobbits into a big hug so that his arms were completely full of hobbit, but he managed to get to his feet anyway, now lifting all four hobbits off the ground. Sam felt Mr. Pippin’s elbow digging into his side, and he was pretty sure that was Mr. Merry’s thigh that his knee was digging into, but Sam hardly minded, and from the way Mr. Merry was laughing, he doubted he did either. Mr. Frodo’s laughter was quieter than the laughter of the other hobbits, and maybe it was quieter than Sam remembered it being, but it was still there, and Sam could hear it, and that was enough for him.

“Hurt them? You know me lad, I couldnae hurt a fly if I didn’t mean to!” Mr. Gimli protested in response to Mr. Legolas’ teasing, which was far more gentle than Sam remembered.

“Ah, I do believe there were 40 something Orcs at Helm’s Deep that would dispute that.” Mr. Strider commented from where he was standing to the side.

“42!” Mr. Legolas chirped just as Mr. Gimli growled out the same number.

“What happened at Helm’s Deep?” Mr. Frodo asked. Before anyone could respond, however, there was a brief flash of golden light in the corner. It was not just light though; it was in the silhouette of a man. As soon as it came, it was gone. Again, there was a splutter of golden light in the same shape.

“Well, now I have so… many… questions.” Mr. Strider commented, and practically moaned as the light flickered again. This time, it was slower to flicker back out of existence. There was a pause, and then the light came back again. This time as it faded away, there was a figure lying on the ground. A low groan emitted from the figure there. It was an impossible voice from an impossible figure. Really, Sam had felt the same tug when he thought of him as when he had thought of Mr. Strider or Mr. Pippin, but he still hadn’t thought it was actually possible.

“Boromir?” Mr. Strider’s voice cracked as he brought himself to the end of the name, like his very mouth couldn’t believe the sounds coming out of it.

“Alright, lads, which one of you has answers for us?” Mr. Gimli asked the hobbits, setting them on the ground. Sam hesitated before speaking for just a moment as he searched for the right words to say, but that was all it took.

“I believe answers would indeed be useful. So, boys, which one of you is going to speak up this time?” Really, Sam was worried about Mr. Frodo, because he was making a wheezing noise that could not be healthy. Mr. Frodo’s eyes were fixed upon Mr. Bilbo, who Sam had to note, was looking far younger than Sam thought he should be. He looked the exact same as he had on the day of the party, what felt like lifetimes ago. Luckily, before Sam managed to find whatever words would help him get out of this mess, (Mr. Frodo was always better with words, if Sam does say so himself), a familiar voice fills the space.

“I may have the answers you seek, oh champions.” The voice of the Lady of Lothlorien filled the space. As she spoke, her figure appeared, made solely out of the shimmering gold light, it was clear that the Lady was not actually in the space, but her presence filled the room. There was a gentle flicker of light to her left, and Lord Elrond’s figure appeared there, much in the same manner as the lady. To her right, Mr. Gandalf appeared.

“Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond.” Mr. Legolas bowed to the two in the funny way that elves do. Then, less formally he tipped a head to one side towards Mr. Gandalf. “Mithrandir.”

“Now is hardly a time for formalities, Legolas Thrandulion.” Mr. Gandalf responded. “We have much to explain and far less time.” Sam did his best to keep a confused look off of his face. But really, good hobbit sense would require that Mr. Gandalf use at least twice as many words to explain whatever that sentence meant.

“It appears that Sauron had a failsafe built into Amon Amarth. When the hobbits tried to throw the Ring of Power into its flames, it activated runes older than any of us. I suspect they were a relic left over from when Morgoth taught him. The runes were designed to provide Sauron a final desperate attempt. It sent him back in time around a hundred years – we cannot be certain of the exact date. Thanks to the heroic natures of our ringbearer and his companion, Sauron was unable to complete his ritual. As such, we were able to attach our own ritual to the one preformed by Sauron. We will send you, our champions back in time to counter him.”

o – o – o – o

_And so, the bearers of the three elven rings explained the task before their champions. For most of the fellowship, the task became clear. For others, it is safe to say more information would have been appreciated._

o – o – o – o

The last thing Boromir could remember was dying in Aragorn’s arms after pulling a promise from the man that he would take up his rightful place as king. Then… nothing. So really, Boromir would like some answers. Or really, any answers at all would be great.

Boromir is, after all, almost certain he’s supposed to be dead. Or at the very least, severely wounded on the side of the river Anduin. He wasn’t sure of the extent of the healing abilities of the true king of Gondor, so there was chance he had lived, but he definitely wouldn’t have been able to get to… wherever he is. This Very Dark Room, Boromir decides to call it. The Lady of the Golden Wood is here to, and really, this whole situation seems designed to fray Boromir’s nerves and patience.

The Lord of Rivendell is talking, and he’s talking about traveling through time, because of course he is, normality is overrated these days. Boromir longs for the days when he and Faramir sharing a dream together was the strangest thing in his life. Finally, he can’t hold it in any longer, and he cuts in before Mithrandir can begin a third long-winded speech.

“That is all well and good, but how exactly does this work? Many of us are hardly in any shape to do anything at all, and when we leave whatever enchantment is upon this space, I suspect we will all be in our various states of dead and dying.” At least, that’s what Boromir will assume, given what he remembers from Faramir’s many late-night ramblings on the enchanted domain of the elves. Boromir casts a look around his companions – clearly some time has passed for them that has not passed for him, if they had been able to trigger this by throwing the ring into the fires of Mount Doom. For the most part, they have varying degrees of exasperation on their faces, although they all also seem to have a degree of weary fondness to them. Even Gimli, who prior to their time in the Golden Wood Boromir could always count on to agree with him when it came to elvish nonsense, was looking on at him in exasperation. No, Boromir’s ally in this came from the only unfamiliar face in the room, an older hobbit who hovered near Frodo and seemed to vibrate with what Boromir assumed was worry for the ringbearer. He looked vaguely familiar, but Boromir had no idea who he was.

“He has a point, Gandalf.” The older hobbit cut in before Mithrandir could launch into the tirade that the whole fellowship could see building. Suddenly, Boromir found himself filled with respect for this older hobbit. “Not the point that we’ll all keel over dead when you’ve finished whatever it is you need to do, I trust that you wouldn’t let that happen.” As much as Boromir wanted to object to the words themselves, they were spoken in a way to all three of the white council as though it was a threat, and Boromir hadn’t thought it was possible, but he liked the no-nonsense attitude of hobbits even more than he had before. “No, Gandalf, the point he raises is that a hundred years ago, hardy any of us were in any shape to go off on a quest to save the world! Why, most of us weren’t even born yet!” Mithrandir simply chuckled in response to the mystery hobbit’s increasing aggravation.

“Well, it certain is good to see some of your old fire returned to you, Bilbo.” Oh good, now Boromir had a name, and could stop just calling him ‘Grouchy Old Hobbit’. Mithrandir was still talking, though. “But your worry is unfounded. I hoped that you would have more faith in your old friend, Bilbo Baggins.” So, a relation of Frodo’s then? Boromir was mostly sure that was how hobbit surnames functioned. Although, really, for all he knew they were just insults that his four hobbits threw back and forth at each other. “No, my dear hobbits and company, you will find that while those of you with forms in the appropriate year will inhabit them again, the rest of you will remain in your current form until such a time when your proper bodies are available to you again.” Really, it was miraculous how Gandalf could explain everything and nothing at the same time. A talent, even.

“Well, all right then. I suppose I have done less thought-out things, myself.” Bilbo responds, and Gandalf practically beams even as Gimli devolves into snickers – clearly, there is a joke here that Boromir is missing, he remarks to himself, even as a small grin touches the face of the Lord of Rivendell. Boromir takes comfort in the fact that at least Legolas looks as confused as he feels. Still, despite not being in on the joke, Boromir is fairly sure he can now piece together the puzzle that is this conversation. Which is, of course, when it gets more complicated.

“One final warning before you depart. It appears that just as we rode on the coat-tails of another’s ritual, others have ridden on the coat-tails of our ritual. Be warry when you wake, my champions, for they may be near you.” Boromir had never met anyone who did uselessly cryptic warnings as well as the Lady of the Golden Woods. However, before he can respond to that, or ask for clarification, as he can see Aragorn rising to do as well, the black around them flickers in and out of existence, and then everything fades away again.

o – o – o – o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf has the energy of being that parent/teacher who always calls you by your firstname-lastname no matter what the situation is. It makes everything 100% more formal. Gosh darn it Gandalf.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn talks to his girlfriend, Bilbo gets Disappointed Looks from his parents, and Legolas attempts to tackle inter-racial politics.

o – o – o – o

_And so, the many of the sons of time awoke in the homes of their fathers… long before their fathers knew who they were_

o – o – o – o

Aragorn tried and failed at opening his eyes, awareness dancing just out of reach, as though his fingertips were just barely brushing against it. Lights flickered in and out around the darkness that made up what he could see. The lights felt familiar a way that Aragorn instinctively knew he’d never be able to explain to anyone else. Sounds drifted in and out of his window of consciousness as well. Familiar voices his mind couldn’t place, but they were relaxing all the same. It made sense, really. Lady Galadriel had said they were going back in time, and auditory memory was the shortest-term. 100 years past, and there was no way that a memory of every voice would have held up.

Still, Aragorn gave his best effort to rise through the soupy fog that covered his senses. Without even meaning to, Aragorn found himself rising physically as well, until he was in a seated position. He gave a weary blink as he forced his eyes to open, to really see rather than what he was doing before. Following that, he immediately recognized the building he was in, if not the room. The high vaulted ceilings of Imladris and those sweeping golden sheen curtains that ~~Dad~~ Lord Elrond had always preferred but that Arwen had always not-so-secretly detested. The memory set a small smile upon his face.

“You’re awake.” A voice Aragorn knew as well as his own rang around the room, gentle and elven. And yet, there was no recognition in Arwen’s voice. Aragorn shoved those thoughts back from his mind. They were not fair to him or to this Arwen, who knew him not. “How do you feel?” Arwen asked as Aragorn turned to face her.

“Well rested indeed, although I am unsure as to how I came to be here.” Aragorn confesses, gently shifting into a sitting position. It wasn’t even truly a falsehood, as his last memories were of standing before the White Council of a time which no longer exists.

“You should not be sitting up yet!” Arwen crossed across the room, and gently pushed Aragorn pack down onto the bed. Aragorn let out a small noise of surprise, but he leaned back with the gentle pressure from Arwen. As he did so, he couldn’t help but notice the small differences between the woman in front of him and the Arwen he had loved. Her hands were smooth, lacking the calluses Aragorn’s Arwen had picked up after she had learned to wield a sword in Lothlorien. Her hair was pulled back and gently rested over a single shoulder, rather than flowing loosely the way it would later in her life. Her dress was a gentle gold color, hanging off of her shoulders.

“My apologies, I did not intend to cause any inconvenience. I simply was disturbed to wake up somewhere I did not remember falling asleep.” Aragorn smiled at her. Arwen responded with a small, gentle smile that still set Aragorn’s heart aflutter, despite his attempts to stifle it.

“You are in Rivendell, in the home of Lord Elrond.” Arwen smiled down at him. “And do not worry about any inconvenience, I merely intend to make sure you do not injure yourself.” Aragorn gave a small snort.

“Ah, but I am a healer myself – I know how much stress it can cause.” Aragorn responded. Arwen turned in surprise.

“You are a healer, then?” Arwen commented, before pausing. “My apologies, it occurs to me that I do not know your name.” Aragorn pauses before speaking, trying to choose the right words to speak here, the right name to give her. In another life he would have given the name he considers truest to himself, but this was not the elf-maiden who had given him her heart – and nearly died for it. If he gave that name, if he invited the version of Arwen who stood before into his heart, would he merely be repeating the same mistakes he made before? If he started down the pathway to revealing his heart to her, would she take the same pathway to the same pains again? Could Aragorn stand being the source of that pain again?

Amongst those thoughts, a conversation between Legolas and Gimli rises to the top of Aragorn’s mind. It had not stood out to him at the time, yet now, a single statement rises, answering the question Aragorn tormented himself with. _Allow me my own choice_ , Legolas had asked of Gimli. It had seemed obvious from the outside of their argument, but now Aragorn realizes that is what he needed to hear as well.

In another life, he had known, no matter how he wished that the elf-maiden he loved would act to spare herself pain, it was not his place to decide Arwen’s path for her, no matter how he loved her. Aragorn had no reason for that to change now – he could only make the choices true to how he was and who he wanted to be and see where that would take them. It was not fair to himself or to her to overthink everything and decide what to do based on how she would react deep in the future.

“My friends call me Aragorn.” Aragorn decided to offer Arwen, and she grinned at him, and it was like a little bit of sunlight. In another life she had called him Estel, but at this point, if she called him that again, she doubted he would ever be able to separate her from the Arwen who had already fallen in love with him.

“And am I among those?” She asked him, gently settling into one of the chairs next to his bed.

“I see no reason you should not be, fair elf.”

“Arwen.” Arwen commented, and Aragorn blinked in surprise, which apparently Arwen misunderstood as confusion. “I am Lady Arwen of Rivendell.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, kind lady.” Aragorn greeted her, and the light that twinkled in her eyes is one that will always remind Aragorn just how much he loves her, and how lucky he is to simply be around her.

“It is lovely to meet you as well.” Arwen responded. “Are you thirsty? You have been unconscious for some time.” She continued, and as Aragorn went to deny it, he realized just how dry his mouth had become.

“Some water would be greatly appreciated.” He admitted, and Arwen lifted a cup from the table by her. She must have filled it prior to sitting down, though Aragorn had missed her doing so. She passed it to him, and he took it, slowly tipping the cup back so he could sip from it. “If you can, could you tell me how I came to be here?” He added.

“My brothers found you immobile by the border of the area my father protects.” Arwen responded, dropping her hands back to her sides. “They attempted to wake you, but when you did not react to any attempts to wake you, they became concerned. They decided to bring you back here to my father’s halls of healing in order to make sure you received what healing you required.”

“And what healing was that?” Aragorn asked, gently checking each limb and area of his body for injuries the way Elrond had taught him to do long ago and in the future.

“Ah, the great mystery. My father could not wake you, yet he could find nothing wrong with you.” Aragorn blinked in surprise.

“And if Lord Elrond could find nothing wrong, then I imagine no one could.” Arwen shifts subtly, in the way that Aragorn would not have recognized had he not known her once so well. It was a surprise that was hidden deep in her face.

“I was unaware my father had a reputation for his healing among the men.” Arwen responded, and Aragorn considered that for a moment before responding.

“Perhaps not among most men of Middle Earth, but as a healer myself, how could I not know of one of the greatest healers of the third age?” Aragorn responded. “Besides, I have spent a fair amount of time among elves myself – it was they who taught me to heal.”

“That sounds like quite the tale, Aragorn.” He gave her a lopsided grin.

“It certainly is.”

“Then I would certainly love to hear it next time we meet, if you remain here long enough.” Arwen smiled as she spoke, and this time it was Aragorn who was concealing his surprise. Apparently, he did a poor job, as Arwen saw it and continued. “I must find my father and inform him you have awoken.” She paused a moment, then added in a gently teasing tone, “And he will be far less pleasant than I was if he finds you attempting to get up again.”

Aragorn was laughing as Arwen exited the room.

o – o – o – o

_One parent, however, finds an extra hint that something extraordinary has taken place_

o – o – o – o

Bilbo blinked awake and jolted in surprise. The world around him, which for so long had been loosing color and bleeding into shades of yellow by his failing eyes, was now full of all of the rich greens and browns that he would always associate with Bag End. Which really, made sense, given that this was most certainly his room in Bag End. Bilbo shifted into a seated position. As he did so, he realized that he felt none of the aches and pains that he had associated with movement as he aged. It was a pleasant realization, and he swung his legs back and forth over the side of his bed and enjoyed that none of his joints popped as he did so.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” Bilbo jumped as his mom shouted, slamming the door open.

“Mom!” He protested as she strode into his room.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” She grinned at him, a wild thing that Bilbo had nearly forgotten. It could have been nostalgic to see it again, except that the energy that came with the grin and indeed with his mother’s presence at all seemed to burn any lazy nostalgia away. In its place was an energetic joy.

“What if I hadn’t been?” He sniped back at her playfully.

“I would have fixed that!” She laughed and leaned against the wall of Bilbo’s room lazily. Still, she shifted into a straighter position, and the humor of the previous exchange bled away into a serious tone as she continued. “Bilbo, when you did not wake when you usually do, your dad came to check on you. He could not wake you, but he found something this morning, and it has left both of us with more questions than answers. I hope that you can… shed some light on this.” And with that, Bilbo’s mom held up a red book with a handwritten title on the front, and it was _very_ familiar. Before Bilbo could plan a reaction, he simply burst out laughing.

“Well, when I think of all that has happened, it is comforting to see I still cannot keep a secret from my mom.” He wheezed out, and his mother’s face did regain its grin in response. But still, she did give him a pointed look when his laughter subsided, and Bilbo hopped off of his bed. “Give me a moment to change into something for the day, and then I’ll talk to both you and Dad? I’d rather explain it only once.”

“Seems fair to me.” Mom nodded in response and stepped towards the door of the room. As she walked out of the room, she hollered teasingly back over her shoulder, “But don’t take to long, okay, sleepyhead? Or else I’ll have to come wake you up again!” Then she closed the door to the room with almost as much bang as she had opened it with. Bilbo found himself laughing. He had missed his mom, and her tendency to always state what was on her mind, and to joke around with him, perhaps even more than he had missed his father’s kind-worded and levelheaded advice.

Gently, Bilbo crossed the room to look at his reflection in the mirror. The face the looked back at him was one of a young hobbit just on the cusp of tweenhood. His face was even yet unmarred by the scratches or marks he usually associated with his face in tweenhood, and the faces of nearly every hobbit in the years that followed the Fell Winter – which meant that the Fell Winter had not yet taken place. But Bilbo did see that resting gently on side of the dresser on which the mirror sat was the short knife that his mother had trusted him with when he entered tweenhood, just months before he lost in the Fell Winter. It quite effectively dated when in time he was, giving him a range of fewer than two months when he could be.

Bilbo turned from the mirror and crossed the room to draw a shirt and trousers from his dresser. As he changed from his nightclothes into the outfit he selected, he could not draw his mind from the subject of when he had landed. The year was 2911 of the Third Age, and Bilbo was 21 years old again. It was a little farther in time than Gandalf and the White Council had claimed they would be sent. The one hundred years number that they had been given would put Bilbo in 2919 TA, at age 29. Still, Bilbo thought as he slipped the shirt on, he found he did not mind, as this gave him a chance to see his dad again, and possibly even to save his dad’s life – Bungo had passed away in 2926 TA, yet it was the wounds he received during the Fell Winter which he never recovered from which had claimed his life.

Bilbo was jerked out of his musing by the sounds of his mom making her way back to his room, and he crossed the room towards the door, only to have it swing open and narrowly miss his face.

“Mom!” He protested, and she gave a laugh.

“Whoops! I didn’t hit you, did I?” She responded and threw her arm around Bilbo. He grumbled a handful of playfully angry mutters but shook his head.

“Nope, just missed me.” Bilbo responded with a quick jab of the elbow to his mom’s shoulder, and she laughed in response. With her arm around Biblo’s shoulder, his mom began guiding him down the hallway to the dining room. Bilbo let her, easily keeping pace with his mother, despite her longer legs. Pressed against her side, Bilbo realized he had forgotten just how much tall his mother was. Not as tall as Merry and Pippin had been when Bilbo saw them in that strange place beyond time, but she was still tall for a hobbit. Bilbo’s dad was rather short, and the combination of the two had led to Bilbo being a quite average height.

“Hello, Bilbo.” Bilbo’s dad greeted him when they entered the dining room. He was just as Bilbo remembered him from before his injury. A cup of tea by his right hand, and a nice but not excessively lavish coat on. A book was open in front of him, the way Bilbo remembered so many evenings being passed. Bilbo’s mother might be the one who wanted to see the whole world, but his father had always wanted to read about it all. The only thing that cut into this image from his early years was that the book currently open in front of him was not one from the extensive library of Bag End, but was instead the book Bilbo himself had written before his memory began to fail him.

“Ah, so, I guess you’ve read my book, then.” Is Bilbo’s response. His dad gave him the look that served as a small reminder of mind-your-manners. Bilbo gave a small smile to his dad, then settled into a seat across from him, and poured himself a cup of tea while his mom took the third seat at the table.

“Some of it, yes.” Bilbo’s dad commented while gesturing to the rest of the pages after the one he was open to.

“Or, he has at least.” His mom added with a small grin. Bilbo couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face as his dad bumped his mom’s shoulder. Still, this was a serious time for serious topics.

“So, uh, I’m not really sure where to start.” Bilbo admitted, silently cursing himself. He hadn’t stuttered like that since before his adventure. Luckily, his mom cut right to the core of the issue at hand.

“Bilbo, what we have here seems to be a book you wrote containing the full tale of an adventure you will someday take.” She states, and Bilbo nods. “But I have never seen it before in my life, and it is far longer than could have been written last night – or really, since you learned to write. And besides, from what little I did read, the detail is far to accurate to where the world is shifting towards for it to have been entirely make-believe.” She states. Bilbo’s father tips his head towards her, a silent agreement. Bilbo considers that, but apparently not fast enough for his mother, who fills the silence as she continues. “So there is clearly something magical going on here – I have spent enough time around Gandalf to know that.” And that finally starts Bilbo’s words again.

“Yes, magical is indeed the best word to describe what is going on here – for that book is but the first part of the tale. Have you reached the part where I traded riddles with Gollum under the Misty Mountains?” Bilbo asked, and his father nodded.

“I just finished the chapter where you used the ring you found there to become invisible to escape.”

“This does not answer my question.” Bilbo’s mother answers, but there’s a playfulness to it. Bilbo kicks his mother’s foot under the table. She kicks his back.

“That ring that I found was a truly terrible thing indeed – it was Isildur’s bane.” Bilbo says, and that gets a reaction from both his parents, but he keeps going. “After my adventure ended, I brought it back to Bag End with me, not knowing what it was. The fallout for that, however, was not my burden to bear. Instead, it became a problem for Frodo – Drogo’s son, who became my heir.” Bilbo continues, doing the best to keep the self-reproach from his voice. “Frodo carried the ring all the way from here to Mordor, accompanied by a fellowship that joined him in Rivendell, and a Gamgee, a Took, and a Brandybuck. I do not know the exact details, but when they attempted to destroy the ring, something unexpected took place, and Gandalf and his allies sent myself and the fellowship back to the beginning of it all.” Bilbo finished. His mom laughed.

“That does sound like Gandalf. And I’ll bet he did it with a vague set of instructions that can be interpreted in too many different ways to actually be helpful.” She added, and Bilbo couldn’t help laughing.

“That is exactly what he did.”

o – o – o – o

_And one felt that this was a secret to bear near to his heart_

o – o – o – o

Legolas leaned against the wall and watched a scene he remembered watching before, and not just because he was a time traveler. His father was fuming with rage as he lounged upon his throne in the center of the room, following the exit of the diplomatic entourage. The reason for the anger was simple – the entourage was made up of dwarven representatives, with them had been a dwarf who had been of Erebor. Everything that had happened since the dragon came to the mountain had hung over the room. While no actual fight had broken out, which Legolas was sure counted as a small miracle, the only thing that did happen was an impressive number of consecutive backhanded compliments.

Now that the dwarves were gone, Legolas’ father was angrily muttering. If he were in a betting mood, or if Gimli were here, Legolas would bet a handful of coins that the king of Mirkwood was running through his greatest hits, from the greed of dwarves to true dangers of dragons. As he watches and does his best to not listen, Legolas does his best not to be sick, Gimli’s description of his childhood in the Blue Mountains running parallel to the world his father’s words created in Legolas’ mind.

In another life, Legolas would have been right there along with his father and brothers, passing on cruel assumptions about dwarves. Legolas’ brothers sat on either side of his father, Laerophen on his right, and Laindawar on the left. In another life, Legolas usually would have been standing among the guard behind the three of them. That is how he knew his father would be talking circles around Laindawar in their conversation, who was hardly a Silvertongue, but could calm down his father like no one else in Mirkwood, except Galion. Meanwhile, Laerophen had a book open on his lap, which he would tell others was a lawbook, but Legolas was fairly certain was actually a book of First Age Noldor poetry.

With a careful look around at the other elves in the room, Legolas slipped out of the door just beside where he had been leaning and headed down the hallway that ran parallel to the one their dwarven guests had taken. While that one made its way to the entrance of the kingdom through the dwarves’ rooms, the hallway Legolas hurried down went to the barracks, where he grabbed his gear from the chest where he would store it after every patrol. He swung his quiver and bow onto his back and holstered both of his mithril knives into their sheaths at his side.

Legolas had lingered in the throne hall far longer than he wanted to because going after the dwarves right after they left would have immediately tipped off his father that something had changed, which was something that Legolas knew he had to avoid. At this point, with his father becoming more and more isolationist and convinced that it was Mirkwood versus The World, and he would demand that Legolas use what he knows is coming to attack or sabotage those who Legolas had come to deeply for. To sabotage Gimli’s family.

With that thought, and perhaps more rage than was really required, Legolas through the golden circlet off of his head, and tossed it into the now empty chest. He then headed out of the guard barrack, and towards the gate of the kingdom. Luckily for Legolas, which he had been counting on, Tauriel was heading the guard at the entrance to the kingdom.

“My Prince!” Tauriel commented in surprise as she saw him heading out.

“Legolas, please, Tauriel.” Legolas responded without a second thought – it was an argument they had been having long before now, and he knew would continue into the future. True to form, Tauriel rolled her eyes. Legolas jumps right into his request. “I’m heading out – don’t tell my father where I’ve gone?” He asked, cutting off her question as to where he was going. Her face softened in understanding, and Legolas briefly felt bad – Tauriel often covered for him after a fight with his father if he needed space. Before he could feel too bad, though, he remembered Gimli’s story of his cousin’s father who was killed in the collapse of mine they knew was unstable, but that they had no choice but to mine.

“Of course.” Tauriel nodded to Legolas, and she gave him a small smile. From there, Legolas took off into the woods at a run. The wind blew his hair out behind him, and despite everything, Legolas felt the song of his home forest ringing in his bones, the way he had missed as he traveled with the Fellowship and the Three Hunters. The song sang to him to hunt the Ungoliant spiders which had been moving into the forest as long as he could remember, but he put that aside in favor of finding the dwarves.

And Legolas found them as he ran through the upper branches of the trees, about forty minutes from the exit of the kingdom. He found the company of fourteen there – and briefly wondered if that was somehow an important number to the dwarves. Something to write Gimli about, he supposed. He took a deep breath and dropped down from the branches of the pathway behind them.

“Master Dwarves!” He called to them, and all fourteen of them immediately went for the variety of weapons they had one them. Within a heartbeat, he had an axe pointed directly at his throat, and a collection of knives and swords pointed at him. No bow, though, he noted, though he remembered Tauriel’s dwarf wielding one when Thorin Oakenshield’s company passed through. Legolas took a steadying breath and didn’t react to the weapons.

“Who are you, and what do you want.” One of the dwarves with a knife growled out. If Legolas had learned anything from Gimli, he would have guessed the dwarf was from the Iron Hills, based on the stones laid into the hilt of the blade.

“I came to speak to you without all of the…” Legolas paused for a moment to choose the right world, wishing he had Gimli’s gift for words. “Politics.” He finally finished the sentence, feeling like it was hardly an adequate word for all that had blocked their deals with his father. One of the dwarves glared at him, and he was pretty sure they were from the Blue Mountains, given the familiar-looking dwarf by his side. He wasn’t sure who it was, but Legolas remembered his face from Thorin Oakenshield’s company.

“And who are you to deal with us?” The dwarf with the notable glare asked. Legolas looked away from the blade of the axe at his neck.

“I am Prince Legolas, third son of Thranduil and captain of the guard.” Legolas said, keeping his voice tight – the tone of disgust he usually carries for his titles these days would too easily be taken as disgust towards those with blades at his throat.

“Your father just threw our offer back in our faces and make unreasonable demands, and you expect us to believe you’d treat us differently?” Legolas considered that for a moment, contemplating his words. He took a deep breath, and then unhooked his bow and knives, and let them clatter to the path below him. As the weapons clinked falling on the ground, the dwarves all stepped back. Gimli had told him, as they crossed Rohan together, how important dropping his weapons upon the ground was. It was him putting his lives in their hands.

“I am not my father. He cannot see past grievances in his past.” He finally spoke.

“And I suppose you’re different?” A new voice, though Legolas wasn’t sure which dwarf spoke. It was clear the question wasn’t genuine though.

“I would not see the future of my people and of your people squandered over an old grudge.” After he spoke, there was quiet. Finally, the dwarf from what Gimli had called The Company spoke again.

“I didnea even see you at the negotiations, how much can you really offer?” He ground out. Legolas took a deep breath.

“I have all the same power in the kingdom as my brothers, and none of the eyes on me – and I am hardly the only one who feels the way I do. You spoke with my father about a lack of medical herbs in the Blue Mountains – If you give me a list of what you need, I can see about providing that.”

“We’re not here for your charity.” A dwarf with a spectacular scowl stated.

“It’s not charity. I need to trade – dwarven blades are the best there are, and my father fails to arm my guard against rising dangers here in the forest.” Finally, the blade dropped away from Legolas’ throat, and other blades and axes were re-holstered.

“Then let’s talk.”

o – o – o – o

**Author's Note:**

> hey, I know it's been a while.
> 
> Star Wars ate me.
> 
> I'm going to try to balance out what fandoms I write for more evenly, although this story does take far longer than any of said star wars fics to update. Apologies in advance, but know that I never will intentionally abandon a fic. Someday, I intend to finish them all.


End file.
